


Switched Roles

by iselleggstominors



Category: D:BH - Fandom, DBH - Fandom, Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attack, Self destruction, hurt Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iselleggstominors/pseuds/iselleggstominors
Summary: Connor's been dealing with Hank--a mess of a man--for only a month or two, and it's already starting to take its toll on him.





	Switched Roles

It has been nearly a month since the android revolution. Humans--most of them, anyway--are integrating androids into their daily life, and androids, in return, are becoming accustomed to the human lifestyle, as well as human emotions. Connor has been living with Hank for a little over two weeks, two weeks and one day to be precise, and has been taking care of both him and Sumo, as per the objective now permanently cemented in his systems programming. 

TAKE CARE OF HANK AND SUMO

Hank is by no means an easy man to take care of. His drinking habits and awful dietary choices have transformed him into a very unhealthy man, both physically and mentally. His alcoholism leads to lower self-esteem, which in turn leads to worse alcoholism. It’s a nasty cycle Connor recognizes--he has several files on it in his database--and one that Hank refuses to acknowledge. 

Connor is forced out of his thoughts--the android equivalent, that is, which Connor usually passes off as reviewing memory files--when an urgent notification starts blaring in the corner of his field of vision, in tune with the red blink of his LED. For a moment he wishes there was a way to shut off his notification system so he wouldn’t be reminded of things he was already well aware of. The notification is informing him that his stress levels have risen to eighty-nine per cent, which had already been made painfully clear. Though, he supposes it is useful knowing how close he is to an involuntary self-destruction. 

STRESS LEVEL ^ 92%

His own arms clutch tighter around his torso. He’s trying desperately to keep himself in one piece, just as he had fought so many times to keep Hank from falling apart. Logically, Connor knew Hank wouldn’t fall apart--he couldn’t, it’s physically impossible. The same couldn’t be said for Connor, though the probability of that happening is between nine and fifteen per cent. His processors aren’t working properly, so he can’t make an exact and accurate measurement of probability. With a quick, yet partially indecipherable diagnostics scan, he knows nothing in his synthetic body is broken or working improperly, though his thirium pump seems to be working on overdrive. 

Connor soon realizes that bringing his attention to his rapidly thumping thirium pump is a bad idea because it surfaces a feeling deep in Connor’s chest. It’s tight and uncomfortable and sends panicky waves of thought through his head. Connor has no idea how to describe it. According to his diagnostics scan, nothing is malfunctioning or broken, there shouldn’t be any sort of abnormality.

Connor wonders if this ever happens to Hank. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s happening now. According to the scan, he’d run on Hank just a few hours earlier, the man had definitely been in pain, though most of that had been caused by the massive amount of alcohol he had consumed. Connor remembered running a hand over Hank’s back to help soothe him, help to ease out the vomit that was violently spewing out of his mouth, along with the string of colourful slurs. 

That wasn’t the first time that had happened that week either. Just a few days before, Connor had been in the same position, despite the setting being completely different. Hank was found at a bar, face resting on the cool countertop, a glass of whiskey resting loosely in his hand. By the looks of it, he had had at least four drinks, not including the one in his hand. Connor ended up helping Hank into his car and driving him home, having to clean puke out of the car once he’d gotten him into bed. 

Come to think of it, Connor has helped Hank through the same scenario too many times to count. Actually, reviewing the memory files he currently has access to, it’s at least eleven times that he’s gone through this routine with hank. And yet, none of those times has this odd feeling ever occurred. His stress level had increased each time, never really returning to the normal level recommended by his internal instructions, but it had never done this before.

The feeling in Connor’s chest only worsens and a brief thought crosses his mind that causes his stress level to rise up to ninety-five per cent--what if something really is broken? What if something is broken and his systems were malfunctioning enough not to let him know?

Barely able to see through the error messages crowding his vision, Connor reaches his hand down and starts instinctively pulling his tie off. Once that’s done, which takes twice as long as he would have preferred, he begins to remove his jacket and button-up shirt. Without thinking, without being able to think, he claws at his chest in an attempt to open it up. Unfamiliar and irrational instructions are overriding his normal sense of judgement, he can’t stop to think about what he’s doing. A pain erupts through his chest as he continues clawing at his own synthetic flesh. 

Before he can make any real progress with what he’s attempting to do, a voice breaks through his foggy consciousness. Connor can barely make out that it’s a voice, much less tell what it’s saying. Perhaps it’s trying to stop him. No, he can’t stop, that would be going against his instructions. Suddenly, his hands are caught and pushed into the sides of the couch. 

“Goddamnit, Connor, what the fuck do you think you’re doing!” Hank. It’s Hank’s voice. It’s Hank’s hands holding him back. 

In one sudden jerk, Connor tears his hands out of Hank’s grasp to pound them against the older man’s chest. That seems to be successful in getting him off of him because his hands are free. He starts pulling open his chest again. There’s something in there, there’s something wrong, he has to purge himself of the broken biocomponent before it corrupts his entire system. Soon, his hands are restrained again, this time clutched in a firm grip that won’t let go, no matter how hard he tries to get them free. 

“Connor, for fuck's sake!” Hank’s voice breaks through to him again. His vision is still clouded by the angry red error messages, but he can barely make out Hank’s angry, albeit a bit worried, face. He stops struggling. Hank is here. 

Suddenly, Connor is breaking down. He doesn’t know what happened in between, but Hank has his arms around him and his chest is heaving in laboured breaths, face wet with tears he didn’t know he was capable of producing. He buries his face into Hank’s shirt, trembling hands balling up in the soft fabric.

“It’s alright, son,” Hank mutters, face rested on the top of Connor’s head. “You’re gonna be alright.” 

Connor realizes, with a sort of bitter humour, that the roles have switched now. Hank is the one holding him together, he’s the one breaking into pieces. He sighs heavily against Hank’s shoulder and apologises. “I… I apologize, Lieutenant,” He says softly. “I was-... My systems..”

“Shut it,” Hank responds, though his voice holds more sympathy than would have been expected in a statement like that. “You don’t need to explain yourself.”

Connor continues anyway. “I was so scared,” he whispers in a panicky voice. “I thought-... There was a sixty p-per cent chance that you could have-..” He intakes a deep breath. “I thought you would die…”

Hank says nothing for a few moments and continues to stay silent. He pulls Connor closer to himself instead. It’s unclear how long he and Hank sat there, but at some point, he entered stasis and wasn’t awoken until eight fourteen the next morning, still pressed up against Hank. He smiles and closes his eyes again.


End file.
